Fighting is in our blood.
My dad was a bare-knuckle boxing champion, feared by many. My two older brothers both got into mixed martial arts at a very early age. My dad encouraged them, taught them, bent and twisted them, manipulated them into weapons. They were also feared. Our family got a reputation for being mean and formidable. This caused more trouble than you may think. People thought that fighting my dad or my brothers would give them some kind of crown, move them up the food chain in a sense. The trouble is, everybody who fought them, lost.
Then there's me.
When I was born, both my brothers and my dad already had their broken bones and scars. Their reputations were almost legendary. I've heard that people down the local pub would speak about my family in hushed voices.
My dad told me firmly, from when I was very young, that I was to stay out of trouble, no fighting. If anybody gave me any bother, I was to tell people who I was.
'The name alone will scare the shit out of them,' he told me.
But I was fascinated by this legendary status. I had the name. Why shouldn't I become part of the vicious legacy started by my dad? Why shouldn't I earn my own broken bones, my own scars?
My first fight was with a boy called, Wilson. He made some kind of comment about my new haircut, so I painted the school wall with his face.
It felt great at the time but I had to tell my dad why I was sent home. I was petrified. My dad was a scary man, even to his own family. I remember trying to tell him that I'd spilt the milk and I was a nervous wreck. Even my brothers were afraid of him. He once made my brothers fight each other because they'd pissed him off so bad.
But after Wilson, I was hooked. I was fighting all the time. I soon made a name for myself in school. Everyone was afraid of me. I started boxing. Dad wasn't happy.
No man could beat me. I carried my family name with pride. I was proud of my broken nose and my bloody knuckles. I was never without a black eye or a split lip.
My last fight was this huge guy, muscles the size of melons. He was the only one willing to go up against me. He gave me a good hiding, breaking my ribs. In the end, I won, choking him out.
I can't fight anymore. And I'm shaking just now because I have to tell my dad the reason. He's reading the newspaper. My heart is trying to escape.
'Dad?' I say, throat dry.
He looks up. His eyes dark, dangerous.
'Are you okay?' He asks.
I sit beside him, look him in the eye.
'Dad,' I start to sob, 'I'm pregnant.'
